Lonesome World
by Schneephoenix
Summary: While Sherlock Holmes tries everything to win the game in order to get himself free of the hands of an unknown force, Molly Hooper is driven deeper and deeper into a sea of insanity and loneliness. OC / Post Reichenbach
1. Chapter 1

First of all, this is kind-of-sequel to _"When a heart grows strong"_. You don't necessarily need to read it but it will help to get into this story a bit faster (don't worry it's a Short Cut series, not longer than about 2000 words).

Of course I want to thank _d__aisherz365_ for being my beta :D :D AGAIN :-*

I think there is nothing more for the moment!

Nothing belongs to me, all character are borrowed. The plot is from this overly dramatic mind of mine... yeah that is about it.

Have fun!

JJ xx

Plot: _While Sherlock Holmes tries everything to win the game in order to get himself and Anne free of the hands of an unknown force, Molly Hooper is driven deeper and deeper into a sea of insanity and loneliness._

P A R T O N E

When Sherlock was able to open his eyes again there was nothing but darkness. He tried to concentrate hard, getting his eyes to get used to his surroundings but to no success. He was sitting on a chair, he could tell this after all, he was not enchained either, if he wanted, he could stand up and move around. He was not yet sure if it was a good idea though, he would need to think that through.

The room was not cold, not overly warm either, normal temperature, despitehe knew it to be relatively cold outside, rainy, middle of autumn. On the other hand was he even still in England? How long was he out? It felt like he sat on this chair for ages, he was sour and his back, as well as his neck, hurt.

He searched the floor with his feet, tried to find something with his hands in close distance. There was nothing. Would they want him dead, they would have already killed him. Would they want him in pain, this room would not be nicely tempered. Would they want him to stay in this chair, he would have been chained. Surely the idea was for him to stand up and make his own assumptions, doing what he was best at.

So he stayed seated.

Someone will come and explain and than he can do all the deduction that was to make and drew every assumption he needed. He was able to sit this out, absolutely no problem at all. He has done this for four years, four long agonizing years. He has got used to this. He has become as patient as a man can possibly get.

This brought Sherlock's thoughts back to the task he had failed. His last task, would he have been successful, all would have been well again. He could have started to clean out his name finally. Making himself a living again. Making up to people, one person in particular what he has made them, what he has made her, go through. He has promised. He, Sherlock Holmes has made a promise, one he intended to keep.

He would need to put his whole concentration, all of his effort back into that task once this was over. Whatever _this_ was. Could it be in any connection to Moriarty's web? For sure someone knew he was alive, otherwise this situation would not have occurred in the first place. Logically. Never the less, It was his fault, his fault alone. It was him showing up at Molly's, never should he have done something so stupidly emotional, while being perfectly aware of the danger. He growled in frustration and threw his hands up in the air.

The movement ended with him folding his hands behind the chair. It was then he realized there was a paper pined to the backside of the backrest. Check. He took the paper, it was simply folded in the middle, he immediately recognized that it was written in Braille. He once learned the combination; it couldn't be this hart after all.

He closed his eyes in concentration, thinking, remembering. Going back to the place he was introduced to the lettering, the room, it all came back into his mind. It was a sunny day, hot, a hysterical woman, white walls, somewhat yellowed by smoke. There it was.

The next step was to try to feel the combination of dots instead of just seeing them. He took a deep breath, beginning. It took him a minute or two, maybe three.

_There is a riddle. Well not a riddle to your standard, but it is a beginning. A little warm up._

_Tell, what was first, the chicken? Or the Egg? Now, do not even think about evolution. What would Aristotle say?_

_When you got the solution, stand up, go four feet to your right. There you find a keypad, type in 7 for the chicken or 3 for the egg!_

Sherlock grinned and got up. He typed in the number and within seconds the room was lit. He stood in a long room, a hall, there was a front door attached, while he took in all his surroundings all he really noticed was a card, pinned to the door.

_You won't get far with this stubbornness of yours, nor with any kind of selfishness! - _Was printed in big, black letters on a red background.

Within an instance he was at the door, took the handle and opened the door with ease. What was that? Indeed the door was the front door, he looked outside, and it seemed like the middle of nowhere. Fields, trees here and there, something that resembled a street but it was more of a mud track. A heavy car has been driven down the path recently. There was a forest in the far, at least three to four kilometres from here. He went down the little flight of stairs.

What, for god's sake, was that to mean? It was a rather big house, standing in the middle of nowhere, at least he was still in England, he was sure of this. The weather was exactly the same, the air. It was English Air. He could do nothing out of the house, its windows where sealed from the inside by wooden panels at the first floor and with thick curtains at the second.

He went about around the house. Nothing much changed, fields and fields and forest. But to the backside of the house it changed to hills, the forest was much closer.

There was a slide, sitting beside a swing. It looked new, as if it was suppose to be here for a single reason. There was a small playhouse and Sherlock noticed a child sitting in there, arms looked around its knees, it was oddly familiar to him and his mind went into alarm the moment he began to realize.

He strode forward and was at the house within seconds, got down to his knees. It was Anne.

The second the girl realized someone was there, she began to scream, trying to run, but Sherlock grabbed her at her left hand and it was in this moment, the three year old turned around, trying to bit the hand of her attacker that she looked and recognised Sherlock's face.

"Anne, Anne, all is good." Immediately the girl began to cry and she threw herself around Sherlock's neck.

"Mummy, I want Mummy. Where is Mummy?" she sobbed desperately and Sherlock suddenly felt his stomach twist. He held her close and her small fingers grabbed his dress shirt with a force he would not have trusted her to have.

He had no idea how to calm the little girl down so he let her cry, he patted her back as he has seen Molly do it and other Mothers, he even remembered his own mother doing it with him. But never the less he was slightly afraid Anne would forget to breath at the rate she was sobbing and hiccupping.

The girl was cold, she was wearing nothing more than a T-Shirt under a thin zip-jacked. How long was she outside already? She was shaking, but really sure if it was of the cold or because of her condition she was in he was not.

Sherlock got up from his knees. Anne clung to him as if her life depended on him and with a cold realisation Sherlock understood, that it probably did. He was not able to run with her, not the way they both were dressed, he was not able to know how far away they were from civilisation. He was more frustrated by the minute. Another hour and it would be dark; there was no way this would work when he wants to get Anne back to her mother in one healthy piece. As soon as the sun sets there would be another heavy fall in temperature.

He began to walk, over to where a field began. He tried to figure out where he could be. Were these hills significant? Was there famous woods? He went through lists and lists of geography in his head, but nothing came to his mind, nothing what would fit anyway.

It took him a moment to realize that the girl had stopped crying and as soon as he did and he looked down at her small face which resembled Molly's to an extreme, she put the palm of her small hand onto his cheek.

"Mummy said, the next time we see you, all will be good. Why is Mummy not with us?" she asked with innocence only a child could posses. And Sherlock had no answer. And he realized that the girl was still shaking. He had to make a decision, so he did not answer; it was the easiest way so far. All he did was kiss her forehead, resting his hand on her blondish locks, almost directly she sighed, and it sounded foreign from the mouth of a three year old, as if the weight of the world lay on her very shoulders, small as they were.

With long steps he made his way back to the front of the house. The front door was still opened wide, nothing has changed.

This all was a game. And it seemed as if it was all about decision making. He knew he could not run, he could not leave Anne behind, strangely he was not able to and he could not shut up the feeling that forbid him so.

With his head low he went up the stairs and got back into the hall where the chair still stood, the lights were on and the moment he was far away enough from the front door, it closed behind him automatically while the door on the other side of the room opened with a click.

He wanted to sit Anne down but she shook her head strongly and held her hands behind his neck. So he got through the hall still with her in his arms. The next room was a big room, kitchen and living room in one, and another door clicked open to his left, there was a flat screen to the far side of the room, and two doors which were probably still looked. A long sofa, two armchairs, a big table, six chairs, flowers... it was perfectly decorated; it was as if it waited for its inhabitants to come back and go on about their lives.

Sherlock breathed deeply, he took everything in, and there was even a dollhouse on the right side of the sofa. He went to look for the room on his left to find it was a bathroom; the other two doors were indeed looked. He went through the kitchen, there was food in the fridge not much but it would last for another few days. Something told him, he would have to solve one or another riddle or make one or another decision to get it filled again with food. On the other hand, maybe he would find a way out of here. He would think about this in a minute. Now he needed to ask some questions, hopefully without getting the small one back to crying.

"Anne, can you remember how you got here? Why were you in this play house have you seen who brought you here?" Sherlock set himself down in an armchair and after a moment she looked up from where she had placed her head on Sherlock's shoulder, all she did though was shaking her head to an extent that her locks went flying from one side of her head to the other.

"I could not find Mummy suddenly. She was away and I don't know. I want my Mummy!" again tears formed in her eyes and Sherlock laid a hand on the side of her face, his thumb caressed her cheek.

"Don't cry. Tell me what happened!" He tried not to speak up but the frustration and this unwanted instincts that growled up within him unnerved him.

"There were lots of peoples everywhere, and I had to hold to Mummy's hand really tight. And then all was cold and I woke up on the slide outside, I am still cold Daddy and I am thirsty." She swallowed hard and again, Sherlock could not stop them, the sobs broke from the little girl and all he could do was hold her close.


	2. Chapter 2

Just to remind you, this is a sequel to _**"When a heart grows strong"**_ ;)

O

This time the girl cried herself into sleep and Sherlock was grateful about it. He was able to lay her down on the sofa to think. To move around the way he needed or to sit still without any distraction. He began with the previous though; he inspected every surface, each cupboard, he turned everything, which was to turn, he sniffed at every piece of grocery, searched the dollhouse, checked the inner life of every doll, the TV was off-line, the bathroom cleaned as if the queen herself was to visit, but there was nothing, he found no secret place, no hidden door, no further notes.

So Sherlock Holmes took place in the armchair again. He folded his hands in front of his face as if in prayer and began to analyse the total consequence of what happened. He thought about it an hour and a second and he stared at one of the windows, rather at the wooden panel, which he had not yet figured out how to remove.

Finally he decided that he could not find an answer just now. There were no signs, no blackmailing, he was, to the point of this kidnapping-thing, safe; he thought his secret to be safe at least.

It was a small hand on his leg which took him out of his thoughts and back into real life. His first reaction was to shove it away until he realized whose hand it was, he looked at the sleep drunken girl; he knew he was supposed to smile, Molly has asked him to smile: "When you are not able to show emotions, at least smile at her, you are frightening her!", her words were echoing in his head but he could not force him to fulfill her wish.

After all she didn't really seem to mind right now.

"I am still thirsty but I can't find something on myself. I won't reach the boards!" It took her words for him to realize that one of the chairs was pushed in front of the cupboards and one door was even opened but the glasses were in the highest board so she was not able to reach them herself.

"Of course." Was all the politeness he could manage in this moment, for she has disturbed him in his thoughts, and he was not to be disturbed in his thoughts. End of that, he had to teach her so.

He went over to the part where the kitchen was located; Anne made her way behind him and never was more than three feet away from him. He took out a glass and opened the fridge, he filled some juice in it and mixed it with water as he has seen Molly do it and just to be sure all was acceptable and save, he took a sip and waited a small amount of time before he gave it down to Anne, who was standing with outstretched arms beside him. She took one slow sip and another one, probably checking if it was to her taste, than she poured down half the glass, she took a deep breath and the other half of the glass was gone. She held the glass back up and Sherlock took it, not knowing what to make of it.

"You want some more?" he asked her, she shook her head and he nodded. He was at a bit of a dead end. Seeing Molly doing all those things made it look so easy. Why was she looking at him so full of expectation?

"Is there something else you wish to have Anne?" he asked her after another silent moment.

"I would like to eat something, I am hungry." Of course... Children needed food at a regular basis. He hadn't thought of this yet. And they needed all those other things... they needed to use the bathroom; they needed to be bathed... He dismissed the thoughts and would deal with it later, when the time came.

So Sherlock opened the fridge and began to think hard. What was it he got as a child? He liked sandwiches with jam... there was jam but bread? He had found none when he searched the kitchen some hours ago. Okay. There was milk and cereals, but these were actually for the morning... they had to suffice for now however.

He took a bowl and poured everything together; he gave Anne a spoon into her hand and placed the cereals onto the table. The child climbed up the chair and set herself down on her folded knees. She began to eat as if she hadn't had something to eat for days. But on the other hand, she probably hadn't had something since the morning and his feeling told him that it was close to midnight by now.

"Can I have some more?" she asked when she had sipped the last of the milk from her bowl. Sherlock nodded shortly. He needed to be careful with the food he decided, he had still no idea what all this would mean because he still had not found any connection with Moriarty's web or any other criminal organisation he came across in the last years.

Five minutes later he sat at the table again, across from Anne, watching her taking spoon after spoon. When she was nearly to the end of the second, smaller bowl, she stopped for a short moment, than she took another spoon and turned it in his direction, she stretched her arm to him.

"You take some!" Sherlock shook his head sharply, making Anne look sad nearly instantly.

"But it tastes good." She argued, looking back down, taking the spoon to herself again, thinking, stirring in her bowl, than after another minute she ate the last of her food and placed the spoon into the empty bowl.

"Thank you." She mumbled and she shoved the bowl into his direction, and made her way down the chair.

"Now, Bravo Sherlock! You made her sad!" spoke Molly's voice in his head, but he shoved the thought away, instead he was standing up, making his way over to the sink, placing the dish into it. When he turned again, Anne was sitting beside the dollhouse; she inspected everything closely, than she took a doll and began to build a story in her head only she will ever know.

Sherlock folded his arms in front of his body, leaning against the sink. He could not let the thought rest, all the time the question of why ghosted though his mind. He wanted an answer desperately. Was someone else in this house, monitoring them? Surely! But he hadn't found a camera yet. Either it was hidden extremely well or this all was some sick game of hide and seek... but sick the game was in any case.

Suddenly Sherlock was interrupted by a series of little yawns. And in the same instance Sherlock became frustrated with himself. He has indeed lost account of time, how long was he standing here?

"A child needs sleep!" again Molly's voice crept its way into his mind. He had to find a way to turn this off.

"You should lie down and sleep!" he explained, not moving from his position, Anne however stood and walked over to where she could see him probably.

"But where do I sleep?" she ask and the question seemed really dull to the man, he did not try to show it though.

"The sofa of course. There is no other possibility." The girl looked rather irritated, but she walked over to where she had woken, she climbed up, sat down and again watched him with expectation.

"Mummy would want me to brush my teeth!" she said and added: "And I need a blanket!".

Here it goes. He pushed himself into a standing position and made his way over. He took the blanked which was laying on one of the armchairs, gave it to Anne and waited till she had unfolded it and had laid down. He thought this was all there was but as soon as he turned his back on her, she spoke up again.

"Why am I here without Mummy? Do you live here? Why were we never here before?" Sherlock froze in his step; he did not consider that the little girl was not entirely aware of their situation. He thought hard about an answer. He knew he should think about what Molly would do but he had no idea and that unnerved him.

Finally he turned around and sat down on the table in front of the sofa.

"I don't live here Anne. I live with you and your Mummy but I am not home often." He waited a moment for her to let it sink in.

"You do important work, don't you?" Sherlock nodded.

"Exactly. It takes a lot of time." He hoped she might have forgotten the rest of her question. He wanted to get up again but Anne stretched her hand out for him.

"So why are we here when this is not where you live?" She watched him with big brown eyes and her hand on his knee, grabbing the cloth of his trousers.

"We are here to play a game and when we win the game, we can go back home to your Mummy." He explained and hoped that she would believe what he said. He surely would not believe himself. Anne however seemed to be pleased, for the moment at least, she looked somewhat puzzled before she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

From this moment on, Sherlock had enough time to get on about a second inspectation. But he got not a step further. At the end he was frustrated and made a mess of the room they were looked in, what is not exactly an easy task, considering that it was a quite empty room beside the furniture.

It was during the breakfast of the next day, or what Sherlock considered to be the next day, that the door between the room they were in and the hall clicked open. Within an instance, Sherlock sprung to his feet.

The chair was away by now, so someone had to have been here, or was here! On its place was a little package, he consider it and decided to give it a moment. First of all he checked the hall out. All the doors were closed, everything was just as unpredictable as it was in the other room. So he took the package and opened it, there was a DVD and nothing more.

Immediately he went back into the other room. Anne was by now at the doll house, occupied and seemingly uninterested to his haste behaviour.

He started the DVD and stood directly in front of the monitor in case there were pictures a three year old was unable to delete. And he was right to have taken precaution.

It were sentences at first.

"You did great so far. People would be surprised."

And

"Molly would be unbelievingly relieved to know that her daughter is in good hands."

"There is more at the end, so don't turn off, otherwise you will have to watch through it a second time."

A hundred answers and two hundred new questions and he wanted to press stop to think about what was just said but there was no remote and before he could take any other action, a video began.

London. A busy street. Lots of people. Traffic.

The video had no sound, it was filmed by hand, unprofessional. Sherlock turn for a small second to check if the girl was still at her play. When he looked back, Molly was in the picture, it was zoomed to her. She was in between all those people, it seemed to be morning. She was shaken and big sunglasses covered her eyes. She held upon her purse as if her live depended on it. She went fast, didn't bother whom she pushed or pulled out of her way.

"Mummy!" Sherlock immediately turned to Anne who was standing beside him by now. He took her into his arms and he was glad that he made this decision, the moment he concentrated back on to the TV-screen, Molly was flying through the air, hit by a running car.

Unconsciously he pressed Anne's small face into his shoulder, preventing her from seeing what made his knees weak for a small amount of time.

Molly's body, lying unconscious on the street, people running, circling her. The TV-screen became black.

"The game is on!"


	3. Chapter 3

This is still the **SEQUEL** of "WHEN A HEART GROWS STRONG" ;) Just in case you haven't noticed yet!

"Let me see, Daddy! Let me see, I wanne see Mummy!" the girl tried to loosen herself from Sherlock's grip, but he would not let her. He flipped the TV off, deciding to watch the whole scenario a second time, when the little one has fallen asleep. But right now the girl had other ideas.

He let her free and within an instance she began to wail and to jump in total frustration, completely hysterical to the point Sherlock needed to be afraid of her forgetting to breath. But the later was just a small thought, the most significant was how to make her stop in order for him to think about what he just witnessed.

But he learned fast that every attempt in soothing her resulted in making the situation worse. So he did the only thing that he knew would work eventually: ignoring her.

It was hard concentrating at the rate of her screaming, the picture of Molly flying made him nervous and his heart rate decreased. She was hurt, somewhere Molly was injured and probably in pain. By now she was in a hospital, for sure, people were tending to her injuries. She was alive, otherwise the video would not make sense, one would have giving him pictures of a body. Why was Molly in London? She needed help, she was so frightened and worried that she had decided to disclose his secret to either John or Lestrade. She needed help and could not seek for it in Manchester, (to where she had moved a few weeks before Anne's birth from Birmingham) she needed someone she trusted and who would help her get Anne back, when she was not able to reach Sherlock.

He needed her to stop crying! He sprang to his feet, planned to scream, he already had drawn the air into his lungs, but then he looked at her, rolled up into a ball, hugging her own legs, crying into her knees. He pressed the air out of his nose and observed quietly, she would not stop on her own account. So Sherlock Holmes made small, but well-directed steps and let himself down beside her small frame. He rested his right palm onto her head, instantly she pushed herself away from him, set down two feet further to her original place. Patience; that is what you had to have with children, wasn't it. He couldn't just stand up and leave her to her own, this was not how it worked, so he stayed, hugged his own legs and waited, pretending not to notice her sneaking small glances every now and then.

Finally she crawled to his side. She was as high as him standing beside his sitting form. Her face was all red and puffy and wet, her hair was in total disorder, and her T-Shirt had wet spots from crying. In the end however she curled herself against his chest.

For some long minutes, at least half an hour, she was silent and Sherlock was able to think. But the point came, when she started crying again, asking for her mother, in a desperately sad voice.

"I want to go home, I want to see mummy... we wanted to go to the zoo, she promised." The little girl whispered, it was not easy to understand her, not while her face was pressed into the side of his neck and her voice sore from screaming.

People make promises to children, didn't they? Even if they weren't sure whether they were able to keep them or not, it made the children feel better... Sherlock wasn't able to lie though, not right now. So he stayed silent, not answering, not promising that all will be good, and that her Mummy would go to the zoo with her as soon as they were free.

To some point she stopped crying again, but she did not let go of him and because she did not move much and her breathing was tolerablely silent, he kept sitting with her on his lap.

It was an hour later when he finally asked her to go and play some more that she stood up and went for the dollhouse. Sherlock stood up from the ground and began walking up and down the long side of the room. The door to the hall was still open but nothing has changed he checked the front door but it was still looked, the sign was no longer pinned to the door and everything was just as unpredictable as it was from the beginning.

But one think was new. Molly was just as into this thing as he was. Sherlock put all his hopes into John. He would believe her and Lestrade would do as well as soon as Molly could prove that he was alive and Sherlock believed Molly not to be stupid at all. She has evidence over her time of pregnancy and a simple DNA-Test will prove his paternity. It was simple.

It clicked in his head. This was the reason for the accident or what was supposed to look like an accident. They needed to silence her... but why not kill her right away? This all made no sense at all to him.

The next hours crept by agonizingly slow. Anne had demanded for something to eat and he had managed to make some Instant soup but that was about all the action they would get for the day. In the evening (or what he consider to be the evening) he actually decided to run a bath for Anne just because he had nothing better to do and because his thinking run in dead-ends and because he could make an experience out of it... in a way at least he thought, but in the end he had to admit to himself that there really was not much to experience about bathing a three year old. She was all happy and clean in the end and he had the topic out of the head for at least another few days. When the girl was asleep, Sherlock waited for a certain amount of time until he made himself watching the video again. He had pushed one of the armchairs in front of Anne's face just in case and then it began all over. But all he learned was just how tense and frightened Molly seemed to be. That she didn't change her attire since Anne was taken from her and that she defiantly was on her way to meet someone but that was about it. One thousand unneeded impressions of other people in the video. He hated that he could not do more. Within the course of the night, the door to the hall closed before Sherlock had the possibility to prevent it. In the end he laid himself down in front of the sofa where Anne slept, starring at the ceiling until his eyes dropped close, waking every time Anne so much as stirred or turned, never really relaxing a muscle, just in case. 


	4. Chapter 4

Considering the case I may repeat myself: Thank you daisherz365 for betaing :) R Molly did everything to keep herself awake this time. She could not let herself slip into unconsciousness once more. She needed to speak to John. Needed help. She needed Anne back. The panic which rose within her prevented her from falling back to sleep finally. She was in a hospital-room, all on herself, she was in a bit of pain, but it does not bother her at all, everything she needed was to get out of here to get back to finding Anne, or Sherlock for that matter, he would know what to do, he would find her within hours. She searched for a call-button, realizing that her left arm and her shoulder were in a cast. It took her minutes to finally call someone and within seconds, what really puzzled Molly, the door went open and a nurse came in smiling. "There you are honey! How are you!" She came to a stop on her right side and immediately laid a hand on her good shoulder. Molly did not find the time or any sense in telling this woman who she was, all that counted was that John got here as soon as possible. "I need my mobil-phone, please, you need to bring my purse!" she demanded. "Please calm down Miss. We can sort this all out but sadly I need to inform you that you were brought in her without any purse or any other personal belonging, I am really sorry." The nurse explained and Molly, not yet understanding the importance nor the consequence of the fact that all she had brought with her was lost, she asked for someone to please call John Watson. The nurse agreed, but not before Molly would tell her her name and some other data which she noted down in Molly's file. The next person coming was a doctor, checking her through and explaining all about her injuries. All would heal with time and care so it did not really matter to the woman; all that mattered was her daughter. Her kidnapped daughter. The doctor tried to get her attention about the accident and about her further treatment but all Molly asked was whether someone had reached John Watson. In the end the doctor explained that he would come by later when she had calmed down. It was hours later, at least that was how it had felt for Molly, when the door busted open and a man rushed into her room, looking confused and concerned. When he came to a halt, the two old friends looked at each other and it didn't take long for Molly to start crying. At once all the pressure and fright turned outward. "You have to help me!" she sobbed, the first words in years but all which mattered right now. "Ohh my god Molly, what happened? They called me, I had no idea you were back in London!" He came to her side and looked more concerned with the minute. He searched for a handkerchief and found something at her bedside table. "Here, Calm down and then start from the beginning!" she violently shook her head to the point it began dropping and spinning. "There is no time; they have taken Anne from me." She sobbed and tried to ignore his irritated look. "Who is Anne Molly? And who took her?" John asked while taking himself a chair to sit down beside Molly, taking her good hand in his. "My daughter John and they have her and I need her back, I am afraid they will hurt her. Please help me!" "Oh my god Molly, have you called the police. Do you know who could have taken her?" John tried to stay calm but thousand things went through his head. On the one hand he was still quite in a kind of shock, on the other hand he directly has been infected by her panic. Molly was sincerely frightened and concerned. And beside all this drama, there was an accident in which she has been hurt but that didn't seem to matter to the woman at all and why for heaven's sake did he not know that Molly Hooper had a child? "I have no idea... we were on our way home and there was some kind of demonstration and there was no other way to the flat because everything was blocked from the police... suddenly someone has taken her and nobody cared it was so fast I could not find her, I could not, John please you have to help me." "Was it here in London? Molly why did you not call the police? Did the accident happen because you were hysterical?" There were so many questions he wanted answers to but Molly was not able to calm down, maybe he should call a doctor to give her something to calm down. "No, no... it was back in Manchester. I came here as soon as I realized that she was taken. There was this note at my door I have it in my purse!" "We will get to it Molly, just explain and take a deep breath!" John asked of her and Molly nodded. "I tried to... I tried... but he wasn't - John you need to hear me out, you need to promise to hear what I have to tell you!" suddenly she was close to calm, determined and demanding. She looked into his eyes as if possessed by something, by a need he could not even begin to understand. "I could not have gone to the police because no one would have believed me." "Why would they not believe you Molly, they are the police. They will help!" John did not know what to make of this. Why shouldn't one believe Molly. She was one of the trust worthiest people he knew. Suddenly Molly's grip on his hand became stronger. "No they won't because they will ask for the note and on the note is said that they do not only have Anne but they have her father as well..." "Oh my god Molly, I am so sorry! We will sort this all out." He interrupted her. "We will get them back, we will call Lestrade, he will listen, he will believe you... but stop... this is not all there is, isn't it? The police would have still believed you would you have told them that your husband is taken as well, wouldn't they?" Molly shook her head slowly, tears formed in her eyes again. The next sentence was whispered and broken. "Not when his name is Sherlock Holmes, John." Minutes went by and no one said a word. There was total silence, no one moved except from the tears rolling down Molly's face. John repeated the words in his head over and over but they made absolutely no sense... at all. Long ago he had stopped himself from hoping, from even considering what could be. He had understood that Sherlock indeed was no hero, that there was no way he could have survived. He has seen the body, the blood, the dead shelter of what the great man Sherlock Holmes once was. The broken body. The lost promise. All what had ended, never to come back. John Watson had accepted the death of his best friend and he had let go for his own sake, for the sake of a life to come, a new life without Sherlock. He had made it and because of this, there was only one assumption he could make. "Did you and Sherlock, had the both of you something... you know? I would never have guessed. Oh Molly, I am so sorry, would I have known..." he stuttered. But the thought that nothing he said made any sense did not occur to him because Molly was not pregnant when she left, really he was quite sure of that. He had seen her in a summer dress, days before her departure. Half a year after Sherlock's death, he shoved the thought far away from him. "No John. You did not listen! She was conceived almost a year after Sherlock made everyone believe he has died - Sherlock is taken as well. They have taken both." John's head spun from all those information. He could not process what was said. It really, really made no sense at all. Minutes went by, Molly had his hand in a death grip afraid he would go, leaving her alone. "This can't be true Molly, why... how? I mean..." John shock his head, would this whole situation not feel so really and utterly sad, wouldn't Molly look so deeply broken. He would laugh, claiming it a really sick joke, going and never looking back. "It is John, You have to believe me, I need you to help me convince Lestrade and I can prove it. Someone can make a DNA-Test, it will show that Sherlock is the father of my child!" "How?" it was the question lingering, screaming in his head. "This is not the time for how, I will explain later, I promise!" Molly begged for John to understand how urgent the situation was. "No Molly Hooper. How?" John stood up from his chair. Going up and down the wall, watching her, expecting an answer she seemed not able to give right now. "We had help... Sherlock had help of... of his Homeless-Network, they were there, they were fast, I prepared everything, the body, it was simple as that, a bit of blood, he didn't fall all the way to the concret. I swear John he needed to do it, otherwise people had died, you and and... and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, he had to vanish in order for you to survive!" John supported himself at the wall to his right, this could not be. It was not the truth. Why? It made no sense, nothing made sense. "For four years he is after Moriarty's network, getting it down, making sure we all are safe. It is not easy, he is suffering, he promised he would be finished once he comes back from his last task... he has called it his last task. Please believe me John, please." All John could do was standing at the wall, trying to keep himself on his feet. He needed time to think, fresh air. "Molly, I... I try to but it all sounds so... I don't know. It does not sound real, I can't understand. I need time to think okay, I will come back, I will talk to Lestrade, he will come here I am sure he will hear you out, he will know what to do but I... right now I need time to think..." Without giving her a chance to reply, John rushed out of the room and left Molly bitterly crying. 


	5. Chapter 5

Hey there... sorry for the delete. Won't happen again! Have FUN.

There was a box standing outside in the hall the next time the door opened. Another day had come and gone. The time being caught in here slowly drove Sherlock mad, he needed to do something so he felt kind of thrilled when he put the box onto the table in the main room. There was a case file and an evidence bag. A slow grin spread on his face, this was something he was good at. And surely within half an hour he was able to key in the next number, curious for what might happen as a result. "Daddy!" Sherlock made quick steps into the next room where Anne stood in front of the newly opened door, it was only a jar wide opened. The girl made a step to the side when Sherlock came to her. He slowly pushed the door open and what he found behind irritated him, he made a step inside. It was... "This is my room!" Anne cried behind him and within a second she run into the room. Sherlock reached for her hand in an instance. "You will wait until I made sure everything is all right!" he demanded. "But why? This is my room, it is really my room!" The girl stated back. "You will go outside and wait until I tell you otherwise and now go!" with small steps the girl made her way outside with arms crossed in front of her body, she was offended and a silent tear run down her face. Sherlock went through everything and the process drove him crazy. It was indeed exactly Anne's bedroom, everything was from the flat, it smelled like and it was used and even the wall was painted in the exact same shape of light yellow, there were clothes in the wardrobe he could recall from his last visit several weeks before. The bed sheets smelled of Molly, he imagined her tucking in Anne in the evening. This was sick. It was mad. Nothing else came to Sherlock's mind. The only new lead was that now Sherlock was sure that there had to be more than one person involved, because this had to have happened as soon as Molly had left for London, not more than twenty-eight hours ago. He realized something else, those walls had to be soundproof otherwise he had heard something. At one point Sherlock decided that there was nothing to discover anymore. He made his way out of the room. Anne was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, still somewhat offended. "You can go if you wish!" he told her and within mere seconds she jumped up and ran into her room. It took her half an hour before she came out again. She stood there in the frame and immediately Sherlock knew something was wrong, what on the other hand, he did not know. So for a while no one said a word. "Mummy is not in there." She murmured, her brown eyes all sad and lonely and her little body shaking. This was the moment Sherlock began to understand and it led him to making a promise, but for the first time ever he knew not for sure whether he was able to keep it or not. "Anne, you will see your Mummy again as soon as we are out of here, you will see her and all will be good." Of course the next question of the young girl was to ask how long they were to stay here. This time Sherlock had no answer, all he did was to prepare something for dinner for the girl. And this time he let her share one or two folks with him. The next day was far more dramatic when Anne realized that she was not at home, it were another long minutes of desperate crying and Sherlock understanding that this situation was no, a three year old would get used to with time. She missed her mother dearly and needed her as just a child needed its mother. The next day brought a new riddle and food as reward. It was dull, really, it bored him to death, he wanted more, he wanted a chance to win his way out of here, or at least news on Molly or a way to get Anne out of here and back into the arms of her mother; when his task was to not be selfish in here, there they got it. Just something. Somewhere around day four Sherlock found a purse in the hall. At first he thought it to be some kind of case which he had to solve again but as soon as he took a closer look he realized that it was the same one Molly carried... shortly before the accident, the one she had such a strong grip on. One look inside confirmed his assumption and suddenly all fell into place. The man fell onto the nearest chair available. He pressed his face into his hands. No one would believe Molly. No one would offer her any help. No one would understand. No one would ever get any proof that he was still alive. No one would ever know Molly had a daughter. In the purse was a toothbrush as well as a hairbrush of Annes. A note on red paper, black letters: _She is in a save place._ _As well as your brave man._ _Go on tell everyone._ _No one will believe you._ _No one will listen._ _IT'S A PROMISE. _ Surely, all of Molly's flat was free of evidence that there ever has lived a child. That is the reason her whole room was here. Molly was at a funeral the last time he visited, he had to watch Anne, it was one of her only friend, as good as the only one knowing of Anne. No one would believe her. They would claim her insane. Probably they really would do this, getting her to a doctor who would understand. This was sick. So very sick, Sherlock himself got an ill feeling in his stomach, he doubled over, caught his head in his hands and breathed deeply. He understood what he had to do here. Solve problems, tasked, riddles until the front door opened again and he could run with Anne, no one would hold him. He was sure of this but until then there was a lot of time to bet and Molly would get sick of worry until her mind would turn sick and she would stop to believe her own judgement. At the point he got him and Anne out of here, Molly would already linger at the border of real life and imagination. She would not be able to tell the difference anymore. There was a letter at the bottom of the purse: _You know Sherlock. It is simple as that. Moriarty was not able to see the whole extent of your soul. While he was not able to feel he was sure you was neither. But the difference is that he was insane, sick, while you made a decision to be the way you are. And decisions can be reversed, can't they? Even if unconsciously. You will come out of here in one piece I promise and the thing with Moriarty, it is taken care of, don't worry. _ _The villain is all dead, his kingdom fallen._ _Fairytale end._ _No happily ever after._ _But well, who actually needs happily ever after? _


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for the delay, I had so much stuff to do, it wasn't even funny. But now I am done, so I hope there will be more in the near future!

X

There was no strength left in her body. Her shoulder was hurting her as well as her hip. She couldn't go where she wanted to go, she constantly needed to rely on someone helping her. But this was not what really mattered to her. Her body would come to be okay, it would heal so she didn't really bother. But her soul. The pain within her soul was unbearable.

Her heart was broken, there was no hope left. Three weeks had come and gone and no one cared. Her daughter was lost, taken away from her and no one believed she existed. Molly Hopper was a wreck. But she was not crazy as some people tried to attest. Her mind was in a perfect state, no one could ever convince her that she did not give birth to her daughter... seven agonizing hours of pain, she did not imagine those. And she had not imagined Sherlock. She had not imagined preparing a body to look like him, she had not imagine giving this body and not Sherlock, free for burial. She had not imagined this beautiful day at the park or Christmas or Anne's second birthday. No. No she had, she _had_ lived those nights, those days as she hadn't done many before.

Molly tried to tell herself those words every minute she got. She needed not to forget it. Ever. Nothing could make her forget, no one will convince her. She was not sick, nor was her mind in an unstable state! Who was claiming things like this? Someone knocked at her door. John and his wife had offered to take her in until everything was sorted out. There was nothing to sort out though. All there was to do was find Anne and Sherlock. She wanted her life back. This was all, all she ever wanted these days. Her old life, she would even accept to continue this uncertainty of Sherlock's coming and going, being afraid he might not come back some day.

She could keep the promise, the secret, take it to her grave. All this she would whole-heartily accept when someone got her her daughter back, her little Anne.

"Molly? I just... you did not answer. Sorry to just come in but dinner is ready." Suddenly Molly remembered that someone had knocked at her door. She was a bit surprised by the slowness of her own mind. Mary got to her after she had nodded with a forced smile and helped her into her wheelchair. Mary was a nice woman. Perfect for John, all he needed, someone to love him, someone to care for him when no one ever did it before. Sometimes you only realize what you really need when it is already in front of you.

Molly liked to listen to their story. John had told her a week or two ago, after her case, so to say, was closed, while everyone tried to convince her that everything would get better and she would come to learn that she imagined things. It was in this cruel phase John told her their story and Molly was happy for John and happy for the new life he had come to achieve. He told her that he himself had sometimes imaged seeing Sherlock and that it had taken time but that he had found Mary and she had listened and she had believed him. She was there for him, still was.

John was sorry beyond words that he was not there for Molly, that he had not listened to her pain, even when he had known how in love Molly was with Sherlock, how painfully lonely she must have been with those unrequited feelings. There were all those good intentions but nobody wanted to understand. Not a minute Molly had thought that John wouldn't believe her. It was simply no option, ever. And now she was sitting here, in this room, alone. It was like this, her life was never anything other than this utter loneliness since she had met Sherlock, with Anne there was hope, connected to the possibility to have Sherlock in their life at one point in time, after everything was over... to go back to a normal life if nothing else.

Her heart knew that her little daughter was still alive, she would know when her child had left this world, she was sure of that. The days came and went. This was what her life was at the moment and it was horrible. She was seeing a doctor and this was frightening her, it really did because there were moments when she embraced the possibility of her making the whole thing up. It made things easier... even calming all those frightening feelings. But then she forced herself to remember.

She closed her eyes and thought about how her daughter felt in her arms, and heard her laughter; she could imagine everything so vividly. It was real. She believed in Sherlock. He would save her, their daughter and their life. He would gain his reputation back and she would heal. She wished for it so badly that her inside hurt.

There were no tears anymore. She had long lost the ability to cry. Everything what remained was pain. It was after dinner when John and Mary had asked her to stay for a moment. It wasn't as if she hadn't suspected anything already. All this smiling and the laughing and the joy which the couple tried to hid from her but to no success.

Mary was expecting. But no need for her to leave right now, it was still months to go and by the time she was able to come out of the wheelchair they had still enough time to redecorate the room she was currently staying in. They offered her any help. Of course they were perfectly aware of the fact that she needed to find somewhere to stay. That it was not a good idea to go back to what everyone called her "old life". Ohh if they could only imagine... she would give everything for this chance. Her definition of the "old life" of course. And maybe when she got clearance of "the doctor" (as everyone tended to call her psychologist), she would be able to go back to Barts... surely they would find her a job, if for the moment it would only be in part-time, it would help her making a living again. Finding herself.

John made a mental note to mention this to "the doctor", and maybe he could try to have a word with Mycroft. He could without a doubt get her the job back. Molly had heard him saying it to Mary when he thought she couldn't hear him. All together she knew more things then she let on. For example there was this night when she wanted to watch some telly in the night because she just wasn't able to sleep, when she overheard John confessing to Mary that he needed to fight himself off believing Molly. His heard wished to believe her but his head was convinced, it was what Sherlock wanted him to follow, he had said to his wife, Sherlock would have wanted him to follow his head, to stick to the facts.

It was a horror (to some extent at least) to see Mary each day, living in this bubble of joy and anticipation. It reminded her of the time when she was pregnant. Those lonely months in which she wasn't sure of anything other than the love for her unborn child... going through the birth on her very own; having nobody, and being convinced of how deeply Sherlock was disapproving. But he didn't though. There were no words describing his reaction... he might have even been fascinated but she wasn't entirely sure of that, he at least HAD emotions concerning Anne and this was what gave Molly Hooper hope.

Even so she sometimes thought about that "only having any emotions" was not enough. But this she shoved into the back of her mind. First of all she needed Anne back, and then she could think about what changes her life held for her.

After reliving the news Mary tried hard to stop herself from talking about her pregnancy all the time. Harder so than for Mary to not talk about stuff was for Molly to not respond in any way which would suggest her still being completely convinced that: yes she still believed whole hardly into the fact that she once had a daughter with the great, supposed to be dead, consulting defective Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Not a good idea.

She made herself a promise to just go with the things everyone would like to believe most. She wasn't confirming anything but she also was not telling anyone that of course everyone was right and no, she was never pregnant and it was nothing more that some deep stated wish within her soul that drove her a bit mad. How ridiculous.


	7. Chapter 7

I am back. There is nothing much I can say. I hope you like what you read :D If so, you know what to do ;)

* * *

Routine. It was all they had, nothing ever changed. No chance that something in here would change. After five days nothing was new. It was now day thirty-four. Really, Sherlock had thought the day would come when he thought of a way out, a solution beyond the obvious, but this place was unbearable, although by now everything was unbearable.

At least the crying had stopped, though he hadn't expected it. It probably would have been the only thing he was sure enough to handle; a challenge, in some sense. Now there were days when neither of them would talk and while for Sherlock this was completely acceptable, for a three year old child, it was not. It wasn't as if he didn't try to coax her into speaking, (they never were simultaneously silent), he did, but it just wouldn't work.

Today was a better day.

Anne was sitting on the worktop in the kitchen, watching while Sherlock prepared a meal. Food was now a necessity, so it belonged in this new found and highly mundaine routine. Waking up, always before Anne did. Hoping for a challenge, an escape; though there never was, not anymore. Preparing a breakfast, waiting for Anne to wake up, then eating. Sometimes he entertained Anne during the morning, sometimes not. He attempted to teach her things, although he was never certain if she understood. However most of the time he drifted to his mind-palace and Anne went to her bedroom. Before the small lunch was Anne's time for asking questions, questions that Sherlock had no answers to. The afternoon was no different from the morning and then came dinner, where her inquries would sometimes continue through.

Then there were those times when she told him things instead of asking questions, some of them Sherlock had no patience for, but then there were stories of Molly and about the life they were living before all this happened. Today she told him about her Mum.

Anne told him about the time they went shopping for clothes and why they purchased the dress for Molly that was so really pretty. Also of the time they made a cake for Molly's birthday, which they celebrated in the garden behind the house. Molly wore the dress that day for the first time. She had worn it again the day Anne had last seen Molly.

"Mummy is the prettiest woman, isn't she?" it was such an innocent question and there was only one acceptable answer for Sherlock to give, but it was hard and he couldn't figure out why. Probably because it was the truth and Sherlock was unable to admit such a sentimently related question, not to himself, not yet and he wasn't sure if he ever would. After all he needed to learn the hard way why feelings were such a dangerous disadvantage, and not only once but twice.

"Daddy?"

So all Sherlock did was nod and pass her a piece of fruit. Then he added:

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. It is not productive and it makes little sense. It is stupid!" For a moment Anne felt hurt then she remembered what her Mummy had told her, what she ought to always remember.

"There are no stupid questions! Only stupid answers!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his back to Anne reaching for the fridge.

"What does not productive even mean?" Sherlock turned back around and looked at the girl who watched him with interest. At times it took him a moment to understand a child's questions are genuine and that it was their way to learn, so Sherlock needed to think of an answer.

"It means that the question you asked serves no purpose and thus it wastes time, hence not productive"

After this attempt of an explanation the little girl was more irritated than before. She thought about it, contemplating whether it was a good idea to answer back or not. Then she thought of something else, which within a moment was much more important than anything else.

"Sometimes I hear Mummy crying at night, when she thinks I am asleep, when I am on my way to the bathroom or when I cannot fall asleep and want to sleep in Mummy's bed. "

What was that about now? Sherlock stood and starred at Anne, who starred back.

For a while Sherlock stood there thinking. Anne was still set on the working top of the kitchen, a piece of apple still in her hand. She looked down at it then she looked up, waiting for a reaction, which did not come. That was because it got Sherlock thinking, it pushed him to the edges of his mind-palace, but he was unable to go there yet. First this dinner needed to be cooked and he needed to make sure that Anne cleaned her teeth and went to bed. Until then he needed to remain aware of the things which happened around him.

She cried at night. She cried when all was well. When her life was still... intact, or as intact as her life had been able to be in her situation.

What was she doing now?

They wouldn't break her. Sherlock was sure of that. She was a strong woman, she wouldn't break, simple as that.

That night Sherlock did not sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

T

The days were colder, which meant the nights grew longer. More sleepless hours, it was all Molly had: hours upon hours of time to think.

One such night lay behind Molly and now she did some of the exercises she needed to do in order to get her body to function properly once more. Another week and she would be able to come out of the wheelchair. Her physiotherapist was very positive about a full recovery.

In the afternoon she had an appointment with the doctor, whom Molly told by now that she'd considered his diagnosis and might be willing to work on it. Sherlock would prove them wrong. He would prove all of them wrong.

Suddenly there was a knock on her door and Mary pushed her head through the door.

"Molly? There em, there is a... a visitor for you!" she mumbled. The woman seemed a bit pale, surprised maybe, not of the nice kind though.

"For me? A visitor? Who is it?" Molly lifted herself back into the wheelchair. By now Mary had closed the door behind herself, she held the doorknob in her hand and looked at her friend.

"Ermm, He said he was Mycroft Holmes."

Now Molly was the one shocked. What was he doing here? She hadn't seen this man in years, not since the funeral. Sherlock had assured her, that he had no idea, Molly had no idea how he did it and sometimes she even thought that maybe Mycroft knew more than he let on. That he was the one tricking Sherlock and not the other way around. After all he was just as quick witted as Sherlock, maybe even more so.

"Oh, okay, then I will come in a moment, give me a moment!" Mary nodded and turned around, before she was through the door though she turned back around.

"He wants to talk with you alone, is that okay? I will just go out to the shops; we need some things for the weekend."

Molly only nodded, then she bit her lip as Mary left the room.

What was this about, Molly's mind razed at top speed, all kind of thoughts came and went; feelings of hope and fear.

After a moment she breathed in deep and rolled herself outside her room, into the hall, shaking with anticipation. What if he knew something? Why hadn't he come earlier? Why did she not once consider seeking his help?

Before she reached the door of the kitchen, she stopped. She needed to calm herself, by now the fear dominated, had he news about Sherlock? About Anne? Maybe though this was only about her getting her job back at Barts, but this was unlikely, someone else could handle that. A simple phone call, a letter.

With a deep breath she pushed herself the rest of the way and there he sat. There were files before him, a cup of tea. He had his hand folded in front of him, waiting, just as she had imagined him within the last seconds prior.

"Ah, Molly. Nice to see you!" Molly was a bit taken aback; she had never been just Molly. Not that it bothered her but she always was Dr. Hooper.

"I want to apologise for not visiting you earlier. It was uncalled for."

Why was it uncalled for? Molly didn't understand.

"It is okay, Mr. Holmes. I wasn't expecting your visit." She rolled herself to her place at the table.

"Oh please, call me Mycroft. We are family after all, aren't we?" He smiled in this typical manner of his and opened a file. He began to leaf through it, pretending not to notice her, the shock and horror on her face, nor the hope which glowed deep within her eyes, which she was afraid to act on. It took a long while before Molly was able to open her mouth in answer.

"What... I mean, how. What." She stumbled over her words until Mycroft had the mercy to continue on himself.

"I need to confess that Sherlock had me fooled indeed. I don't know why he felt the need to but he did."

With those words he took a picture out of the folder and held it out for Molly to take.

Immediately tears began to run from her eyes and violent sobs broke from her small frame. For the first time in so long she was able to cry again. It was a photo taken about a year and some month back at Anne's second birthday. It was some kind of surveillance photo but they weren't the centre of it, just another couple in the background.

This was proof, actual real proof. Now people would finally believe her. In this moment she was not able to think, she didn't know what to feel, what to hope for, what to say, what to do.

Until he handed her another photo, which she took with shaking hands. It was a photo of her and Anne on that fateful day, on their way home, among all the people.

"Oh my god!" she whispered before she tried to rid herself of the tears which wouldn't stop running down her face.

"Oh my god, this, where have you? Why haven't you... I mean sooner?" Molly looked up and stared at the man in front of her, a man who had grown older since the last time she had seen him, who was marked by time and life.

"I am so very sorry for your... inconvenience. I have just recently found out about your situation. There were things I needed to handle first. I needed to make sure." He paused, waited for Molly to show signs of comprehension, which she gave through a simple nod and a glint of anger that Mycroft ignored.

"Whoever took Sherlock and Miss. Anne was good, very good. He didn't leave many traces, not much proof that your daughter indeed existed, that Sherlock was still alive."

"Not much? What does that mean? Not much."

"Of course after thorough investigation we were able to find evidence and hidden clues which were not destroyed. Now my best men are doing everything to find Sherlock and your daughter."

Molly could do nothing but nod, her head was spinning. She grabbed on to the arm of the wheelchair with one hand and with the other she clutched the photo which she still stared at. This was too much for her and at the same time such a relief. It meant everything and nothing. She had proof she was sane, but then her child was still in the hands of some kind of crazy man.

"I need to do something, tell me how I can help." Immediately she understood what she had demanded and how very stupid it was. She was not even able to get out of the house on her own. Mycroft's gaze proved her thoughts correct and she nodded.

"Well if you don't mind, I will wait here for John and his lovely wife."

Again Molly just nodded. She stayed mute for the next couple of minutes, which turned into half an hour. Her mind was racing and the feelings were making her hands shake and her body tired. This needed to be real. This couldn't be a dream. She needed her daughter and suddenly she was closer now than she was all those weeks before.

After Mary returned and John was called home, earlier by his wife, everything went by in a blur.

Disbelief. Anger. Screaming. Tears. Fear. Hope. And then nothing but silence.


End file.
